Rock Chick Renegade
Kristen Ashley
Published by Kristen Ashley
Copyright 2011 Kristen Ashley
Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:
Rock Chick Series:
Rock Chick
Rock Chick Rescue
Rock Chick Redemption
The ‘Burg Series:
For You
At Peace
www.kristenashley.net
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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* * * * *
This book is dedicated to the memory of Rebecca Ann Mahan-Womack
or Auntie Bec
her birthstone was amethyst
and to Wil iam Womack
his birthstone is emerald
**
and lastly to Cedric, the inspiration for Boo and the best cat ever
* * * * *
Chapter One
Law
Wel , I guessed eventual y it would come to this. It wasn’t like I wasn’t expecting it. I knew when I started this crusade that something like this could happen, probably would happen, and here I was, in a dead end al ey, facing down Vance Crowe.
Shit, Lee Nightingale’s tracker.
Of al the fucking bad luck.
Rumor on the street, Crowe was third in command at Nightingale Investigations, after Lee and Lee’s right hand man, Luke Stark.
This was saying a lot, considering al the men employed by Nightingale Investigations were the crème de la crème of private investigations, security, surveil ance, bond skip tracing with a smal dose of head-cracking thrown in for shits and giggles. In fact, Nightingale, Stark and Crowe had a guns-drawn, facedown with some low-life drug dealer at a society party just a month ago. Crowe had blown off the guy’s hand.
Rumor had a lot of things about Vance Crowe, in fact, I knew two women who’d had a couple of things from Crowe, by their reports, very good things, though he didn’t stick around to give them more than a couple very good things, much to their dismay.
“Put your gun down,” Crowe said to me.
“Back off,” I returned, keeping my gun aimed at him.
I wasn’t going to shoot him, of course. I was anti-violence that was one of the reasons why I was in this mess in the first place.
He kept walking toward me, unarmed and apparently unafraid.
I took aim at his Harley. It would kil me to harm the Harley but I’d do it.
“Shoot my bike, there’l be consequences,” Crowe warned in a voice that said he meant it.
Fuck.
I aimed at him again.
“Back off,” I repeated as he kept advancing.
“You’re Law,” he told me.
Damn, he knew who I was.
“Stop moving,” I said, ignoring what he said.
He got about a foot away from the barrel of my gun, which was pointed at his chest, and he stopped.
“I work for Lee Nightingale.”
“I know who you work for and I know who you are,” I said to him.
Then I stared at him.
Damn, but he was good-looking. Native American coloring, straight, black hair pul ed into a ponytail at the back of his neck. He was about three inches tal er than me, fantastic body, dark brown eyes, thick lashes, unbelievable bone structure, high cheekbones, square jaw. It should be a crime to be that hot.
“Put the gun down, Law,” he said, using my street name.
My street name was kind of a joke; the kids gave it to me. My real name was Juliet Lawler. Most everyone cal ed me Jules but the kids cal ed me Law because, at the Shelter, what I said was “law”. It had taken on a life of its own these past four months and now I wished they’d never given it to me.
“Step back, Crowe. I’l just get in the car and go. I have no argument with you.”
And I didn’t. I had a lot of arguments with a lot of people but not with anyone at Nightingale Investigations. From what I heard (which was a lot), they weren’t exactly lily white but any fool would be crazy to go head-to-head with a Nightingale Man. I was a fool but I was pretty sure I wasn’t crazy.
“I’l say it one more time,” Crowe informed me quietly.
“Put the gun down.”
“Step back,” I returned.
He moved faster than I’d seen anyone move and, before I knew it, I no longer had the gun.
Not only that, he had my arm twisted behind my back and he had slammed my front up against his hard body.
I struggled.
This was not a good choice. I’d had a free hand and some of my pride left. In seconds, he shoved my gun in the back waistband of his jeans, had my other arm twisted behind me and he moved me, shuffling me back until I hit the side of my car. Then he pressed into me ful body.
I tilted my head back and shouted in his face, “Let go and step away!”
“Two cops were standing in Fortnum’s when you had your showdown with Cordova. They saw the whole thing.
You got a permit for that gun?” he asked.
“Yes.” This was true. Zip got it for me. Zip was a benefactor. Zip supported my crusade. Zip taught me how to shoot and Zip was a good shot, therefore, so was I.
Though, it was a little worrying that two cops saw me face down Sal Cordova. However, I didn’t figure Sal was going to run to the police and tel on me, considering he was a criminal and a total jackass to boot.
“I’m takin’ you into the offices. We’re gonna have a talk,” Vance said to me.
Oh crap.
I didn’t know what he thought we had to talk about but I was having no part of it. Lee Nightingale’s brother and father were cops and so was his best friend. No way was I going to any offices with Crowe.
I kept staring him straight in the eye. It was kind of hard, since he was so hot, I was beginning to feel weird about it, especial y with him pressed up against me. I kept at it al the same.
“I haven’t done anything to you. Just let me be on my way,” I said.
He got closer. If you’d asked me the second before if he could, I would have said no. But his face came within an inch of mine and his body pressed deeper into me.
“This is a dangerous game you’re playin’, Law. Vigilante justice,” he told me.
I knew that, though I didn’t say.
When I didn’t speak, he went on. “You’ve got the attention of Darius and Marcus. This is not a good thing. Do you know what I’m sayin’ to you?”
I felt a little thril go through me and not the kind that was going through me with just his body pressed against mine.
Darius Tucker and Marcus Sloan were the two biggest crime heads in Denver, Colorado. I was happy they knew who I was. I didn’t figure they were scared, but I intended them to be.
Wel , maybe, one day.
Crowe must have seen something on my face because his eyes flashed.
“I should take you to the offices, lock you in the safe room and keep you there until you’ve had some goddamned sense talked into you.”
He said “should”. This I decided to treat as a good thing.
I didn’t know what the safe room was but I didn’t want any part of that either.
I kept staring at him and kept my mouth shut thinking maybe he’d let me go.
He stared right back.
We were both silent, staring, his body pre
ssed against mine.
I kept my chin up and hoped I kept my face blank.
“Jesus, you think you’re fuckin’ Catwoman,” he muttered.
“I do not. Catwoman wore a leotard and stupid ears and fake claws. That’s just sil y.”
I had no idea why I shared my views on Catwoman. I should have kept my mouth shut.
I thought this primarily because what I said made Crowe’s face change. He wasn’t looking at me like he was the pissed off, badass boy trying to warn off the helpless, hapless female who dared enter his turf. He was looking at me in an entirely different way. A way that made me even more aware of his body pressed against mine.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” he asked and even his voice had changed. It was deep and masculine but now it was also smooth, sliding across my skin like silk.
I decided it was best to go silent again.
He tried a different question.
“Why was Cordova chasing you?”
I kept my silence.
Then something else about him changed. It changed the way he looked, it even changed the atmosphere.
I’d been staring at him to keep a brave face and tough out a difficult situation. With the change, I was staring at him because I had to. It was like I was drawn to him. My body softened, even my arms, which he stil held behind me and had been rigid with tension, relaxed.
“I could make you talk,” he threatened, his voice low, quiet and I knew, in that instant, he could.
“Let me go,” I whispered beginning to lose my fight.
This was a first. If Nick knew, he would freak out. He told me I’d been a live-wire since he met me at age six, always beating up kids on the playground who bul ied other kids, sometimes losing, sometimes winning; always phoning and writing senators or congressmen and tel ing them what I thought and how they should vote; always having some cause that I’d fight with a passion that was nearly an obsession.
Crowe kept staring me in the eyes which kept me stuck to him by some magnetic, macho man forcefield.
“You need to stop what you’re doin’ or you’re gonna get hurt,” Crowe told me, his voice stil silky low.
“I can’t,” I admitted, don’t ask me why but I had to say it.
“Then somebody has to stop you.”
Somewhere along the line, he’d let go of my hands and instead he was holding me. Actual y holding me, his arms around me, mine lose at my sides.
It took a lot but I shook off whatever was keeping me entranced, I lifted my hands and pressed against his chest, hard.
He didn’t budge.
Fuck.
“Let me go!” I shouted.
His arms tightened with a jerk and my hands slid up his chest to rest on his shoulders. I immediately began pushing. This didn’t work but it sent a message so I kept doing it.
“I’l let you go and I’l talk to Hank and Eddie. But I hear you’re on the street, I’l find you and shut you down.” He could find me, I knew it. He found people for a living and, if word could be believed, he was real y good at it.
I knew who Hank and Eddie were too. Both good cops, Hank Nightingale and Eddie Chavez, Lee Nightingale’s brother and best friend. I was guessing this meant Crowe would get me off the hook for shooting out Cordova’s tires in broad daylight in the middle of Broadway, one of the busiest streets in Denver. It had been showy and stupid and I knew better. Zip would be disappointed. Nick would be furious.
What I didn’t know was how Crowe would shut me down.
“Al right, Crowe. Let me go, I’l stop,” I lied.
At my words, he grinned.
I stared (again).
He had the most arrogant, shit-eating grin I’d ever seen in my twenty-six (nearly twenty-seven) years of life.
My bel y fluttered.
A bel y flutter? What was that al about?
“What?” I snapped and ignored my bel y.
“You’re lyin’.”
“I am not lying,” I lied again.
He shook his head.
Then, to my surprise, he let me go and stepped back.
I stood there, feeling weirdly bereft.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I waited then waited more.
“Wel , finish it,” I demanded when he didn’t say anything.
“I get the feelin’ I’l see you again,” he told me.
Oh crap.
I didn’t figure that was good at al .
He pul ed my gun out of his jeans, released the clip and with a casual, over arm throw, he tossed it wel away. Then he leaned in, shoved the gun in the waistband of my cords, right in front, by my hipbone.
right in front, by my hipbone.
Then he turned, walked away, threw a muscled thigh over his Harley and roared off.
I stared until I couldn’t see him anymore.
Then I pul ed my gun out, lifted up my sweater and checked to see if there was a mark where his hand slid against me.
I did this because it stil burned.
* * * * *
I parked Hazel (my vintage, red Camaro) in the garage behind my house, scanning my mirrors while the door came down just to be certain I was safe. These days there was no tel ing. I got out of Hazel and did the routine of walking the fifteen feet from the garage to the backdoor. Eyes open, gun at the ready (I had an extra clip in my glove compartment), listening and praying no one was out to get me.
I unlocked the door and walked through the shared back room of my duplex where Nick and I kept our washer and dryer, an extra freezer, tools, old paint cans and the kitty litter which Boo, my cat, could access through the cat flap in my backdoor.
I unlocked that door, unarmed the alarm and flipped the light switch to my retro kitchen. Pink metal cabinets, pink fridge, pink oven door, huge black and white diamond tiles patterning the floor. One wal was brick, the rest painted steel gray. It was cool as shit but not on purpose, only that it had been there so long, it had come back into fashion. I’d bought a high, fifties-style black Formica-topped table with gleaming stainless steel sides and kickass retro stools with black leather swivel seats because the kitchen demanded it.
Boo approached from the other door and began immediately to tel me about his day.
My cat was black with dense, soft fur and yel ow eyes.
He was too fat, unbelievably proud and he was the only clumsy cat I’d ever known. Boo pretended he meant to fal over and miss his leaps from furniture to table or whatever, but he was just not coordinated. At al .
“Meow, meow, meow. Meow meow. Meoow, ” Boo told me, obviously having a ful day and feeling I needed to be kept apprised of every second of it.
I threw my gun and bag on the table and swiped him off the floor.
“Meow! ” Boo protested.
“Shut up, Boo. Mommy’s had a very bad day. She did something stupid, then got cornered by a hot guy and now she’s pretty much fucked.”
“Meow,” Boo replied, thinking his news was more important than mine.
To shut him up I gave him kitty treats, feeding him from fingers to fangs.
This made him happy until I stopped giving him treats and he complained, “Meow.”
“That’s it,” I told him, “only three or the vet is going to yel at me again.”
“Meow,” Boo didn’t care what the vet thought.
“Whatever,” I wasn’t in the mood to argue with Boo.
I dropped my cat, walked into the hal and pul ed off my boots.
Nick owned the whole of the duplex; he let me stay in my side for half the mortgage, kind of. Even though I was now twenty-six (nearly twenty-seven), he didn’t like me paying for anything, even my rent. So, I put it in a bank account each month and gave him a check on New Year’s Day every year. He tore up the check so the money just sat there earning interest.
Sometimes you just didn’t argue with Nick.
The duplexes were weird. They weren’t in the greatest part of town, though I thoug
ht it was pretty or, at least, part of it was. It was official y Baker Historical District but the not-so-good part.
We were on Elati and had a park in front of our house but there was a subsidized high-rise apartment building on one side of the park and a low-rent apartment building across the park opposite it.
Our house was historical y registered and Nick kept it in great condition, regardless of the ‘hood. He’d redone his side, knocked out wal s, put in a bedroom and tore out his pink kitchen.
I had not redone my side.
So my side was a lot like a loft. Nick had put in a new bathroom for me and I’d carpeted the whole place in a thick, soft gray. The front room had huge arched windows, a brick wal , the other wal s painted a soft lilac and it was enormous. It fit al my fancy furniture including the dove gray velvet chaise lounge that sat by the front window, my sweep-lined lilac couch which flanked a gleaming, square pub set with midnight blue, leather-studded pads on the benches and a blue-gray overstuffed chair and ottoman. My antique, oval, walnut dining table was at the inside wal . The half-circle-backed chairs I’d had re-upholstered in the same dove gray velvet as the lounge.
There was a closet that separated the living room from the bedroom, though, you could only loosely cal it a
“bedroom”. It was real y a king-sized mattress set on a platform opened to the hal which sat four feet above the floor. I had to climb up three narrow stairs to get to it. There was storage underneath it and big areas cut in around the side wal s of the bed that were above the lowered ceiling of the hal and closet. This was where I kept books, candles and a television set. This was my refuge. A little, feminine cave with fancy cream sheets, a fluffy green and cream patterned comforter and an overwhelming array of pil ows from standard, to European, to bedrol s, to toss.
Then there was the bathroom and the kitchen. The hal was lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves that housed my massive CD col ection. Mostly rock ‘n’ rol .
I loved my duplex and it was al for me. I didn’t have parties because I didn’t have very many friends and none of them I knew wel enough to ask to a party. I didn’t have a rol icking good time in my bedroom refuge because I’d never had a boyfriend.
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